Carried out of Perdition
by wolvesjsmith
Summary: This is a story detailing Dean's return from Hell and how Castiel could manage to pull Dean out with ONE hand. (This story has a 9 out of 10 chance for being a one shot.) I'm only on season 5 so don't hate me too much if I make a mistake!


Cheap smelling travel shampoo and a cracked bar of soap. Dean Winchester had never been one for fancy fragrances, nor did his budget allow it.

He and his brother Sam had just gotten back from a bloody fight with a demon named _Pishacha_. A flesh eating demon with the power to change its appearance or become invisible.

_Pishacha_ is the one and only known offspring of a shapeshifter and a Rugaru (a human who, after it's first time tasting flesh, becomes a monster _{See: S4,E4}_) He was _human_, at a time. _Pishacha_ knew of his cursed blood and made a crossroads' deal. Trading most of his life for humanity.

_He won't have to worry about his "life" or "humanity" now_, thought Dean.

Dean stepped out of the small shower and dried off with an old scratchy towel that had been ran through the washer a few too many times. He hung the towel over the shower rod for later use.

Turning his back to a mirror that hung just above a sink that desperately needed to be re-calked, he looked over his shoulder in search of any wounds.

Mild scratches crisscrossed his back and a gash resigned near his waistline. In truth the scratches were of no concern, but they were inflamed and would need to be cleaned. The gash however, was an inch in width and depth, and maybe eight inches in length. Sammy would need to stitch that up when he got back with dinner.

Just as he was turning around he caught a glimpse of what looked like a burn. Or the scar of a burn. This was no major find, Dean had had many burns throughout his life, but none in this particular spot that he can remember.

In an attempt to see the scar better, he leaned up onto the balls of his feet. The effort was wasted because the mirror was still too high to see properly. It didn't help that a good half of the scar was concealed by his butt cheek.

He grabbed the towel off of the rod and wrapped it around his waist. Even though Sam wasn't here, and Dean could easily walk around buck naked, but Castiel had a bad habit of popping up without warning. And the last thing Dean needed was to be caught strutting in his birthday suit. A birthday suit that was a little more than soft down south, due to his cold shower, at that.

Dean walked out of the bathroom and over to a small closet. Its contents consisted of a safe that was nailed to the ground, hangers, and a stepping stool. The boys almost never kept their belongings in motel closets, accept for occasionally leaving some money or their multiple fake IDs in the safes. Most of their things stayed in suitcases or in Dean's impala.

He picked up the stool and carried it back into the bathroom. Dropping his towel he stepped up and bent over, showing his backside to the mirror.

Already feeling humiliated he spread his legs slightly and looked at the mirror between them. The bottom of his right cheek, combined with a portion of his thigh high on the right leg was a handprint, burned into his flesh.

Dean quickly stepped off the stool and faced the mirror, showing his left shoulder. An identical hand print was marked there. But Dean knew the whereabouts of this one. Castiel gave it to him when he raised Dean from Hell. Feeling violated, confused, and slightly bewildered, Dean walked out of the bathroom without his towel, to his suitcase where he grabbed his underwear and a clean shirt and pulled them on. He was just bringing out one of the only remaining pair of jeans that had not been bloodstained when he looked up and saw that Castiel had made one of his infamous entrances.

Dean stood still, racking his brain for any sarcastic comment he could think of, but all that came out of his mouth was, "How long have you been standing there?" Had he only saw him fooling with his clothes in the suitcase? Or had Castiel watched him while he walked out of the bathroom and Dean just hadn't seen him? It occurs to Dean that he didn't close the bathroom door before getting on the stool and checking out the hand prints. Had Cas seen that too?

"Not very long," Castiel's voice snapped Dean out of his paranoid trance. Dean quickly pulled his jeans on and looked at Cas with a stare that could wilt daises. "What?" Cas asked. "It was't my intention to intrude. My apologies." Castiel's voice was flat, almost monotone. Angels didn't process emotion quite the same way humans do, in result their voices lack character, but Cas was sincere, that much was obvious.

"Any particular reason there's a hand print, _on my ass_?" Dean was finding it difficult to keep his angry face intact.

Cas gave Dean a confused look. "What you do in your spare time is none of my con-," Dean cut Cas off in mid-sentence.

"No, that's not what I meant," Dean stated impatiently. It was apparent to him that the angel was playing dumb. Cas knew _exactly_ what Dean was talking about.

Didn't he?

"There's a handprint down there, just like this one," Dean said showing Castiel his shoulder. "Except it's on my ass. How'd it get there? Huh, Cas?"

Castiel shifted his gaze from Dean to the ceiling above him. After a moment of thought he nodded his head, remembering. "It was the day I raised you," Castiel said, his voice present but his conscious wandering.

"Yeah, your whole, _'I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_' bit. I remember."

"Well yes I. . . I suppose," Castiel said, pausing briefly.

"Suppose?!" Dean was shouting now. "What the hell do you mean 'suppose'?"

"I _suppose_ showing you would be easier than telling you, Dean." Castiel eyed Dean, raising one eyebrow. Dean's sarcastic tendencies were rubbing off on Cas.

The two stood still, staring at one another. A bright white light filled the room, and then shot out, like a lightbulb. The scene in from of Dean was as follows. Trees, grass, more trees, and a single white cross in the middle of a clearing that was being used as a marker for a grave. Dean recognized this as the place where Sam and Bobby had buried him after being ripped apart by hell hounds.

Castiel stood staring at the sky, anticipating. Dean looked up at the sky and there was nothing. Nothing except a blue sky and fat, white clouds that said rain was coming in a few days time.

A sound like thunder shockwaved the earth, knocking every tree in a hundred mile radius to the ground. In an instant the entire forest surrounding Dean's grave was leveled. The figure of a man, the color of polished white gold, descended out of one of the more agitated clouds and onto the grave. Once the figure was firmly placed on the ground, its light seemed to melt into the grave. Castiel went to the grave, and stood on the surface of it, nodding at Dean to follow.

"Hey now," Dean sarcastically scolded. "That's very disrespectful, to be standing on a man's grave like that." Castiel gave Dean a look that meant, more or less, to stop fooling around and hurry. Dean rolled his eyes at his own unappreciated joke and followed Castiel to stand on Dean's grave.

They seemed to have fallen through the ground and were now suspended high in the air over a pit of fire. The pit was shallow but stretched endlessly for hundreds and hundreds of miles. The jagged stone walls where a very dark grey, almost black. In fact they probably were, but the flames gave enough lighting to change their appearance. The fires burned in different shades of red, orange, yellow, and black.

_But. . . flames aren't _**_black_**, Dean thought suspiciously, still dazed from his descent. He looked closer and came to the realization that the black specks in the flames were not individual parts of the fires, but people. Souls.

They ran about, screaming, flailing their arms. Some were covered in flames, their skin appearing angry and painful. Dean turned his head to Castiel, ready to ask where they were though he had his suspicions. Castiel's focus was not on the scene before them, but somewhere in the distance to the east. There was _one_ visible spot of earth the flames didn't seem to touch. And within the small circle was a man. He was burnt, beaten, and tired looking. His body said everything about desperation, his face spoke of self-loathing. And his face, _his_ face was _Dean's_ face.

Dean remembered a great amount from his time in Hell. He remembered Alastair, the souls he tortured, pain, desperation, _hate_. This however, he did not remember and watched his own past being played out before him like a movie. The white figure from before appeared above Dean's past self. He finally took a chance to actually see the white smoke like figure. It was about the size of Dean, probably a bit shorter, it's eyes were filled with a metallic gold with no pupil, not unlike how a demon's eyes looked. The only part of the figure that didn't look human, was the feather-like formations that protruded out of the figure's back.

Castiel spoke for the first time since zapping the two of them here, "This is the day I raised you. It's my memory. Not the same as traveling to a different time, you can't affect anything, only watch."

"Mind a little more narration here Cas?" Dean spoke in a rough, tight voice.

Castiel pointed at the glowing white figure, "That is myself, it isn't my true form, but it is remarkably close. I could't allow you to see me in my actual form, it would have either killed you or blinded you on earth. I'm not certain what effects it would lead to in Hell however."

"And that's me, right? That piece of burnt toast?."

It wasn't really a question, but Castiel answered anyway, "Yes".

Catiel's past self touched the ground in front of Past-Dean who was on his knees, hands pressed into the dirt.. Dean tried to speak, to say anything, but his voice ran dry a long time ago. Castiel nodded his head once and reached down to grab Dean's shoulder. Castiel's mouth moved, he was saying something to Dean. Whatever it was, it must've been some great news because Dean flung himself at the angel and held tight. Past-Castiel tried to take flight with Dean the way they were standing, with one hand on Dean's shoulder and Dean's arms wrapped around Castiel, but it wasn't working. Dean was too weak—he was nearly unconscious—and Castiel couldn't raise a man from Hell with one hand.

Dean locked his arms around Castiel's neck for support. Still gripping Dean's shoulder, Castiel set his free hand under Dean and lifted him. In response Dean's legs wrapped around the angel's waist. Castiel, in the form he was, fełt like nothing. There was no heat nor cold, no feeling of any sort coming off of Castiel, Dean couldn't feel him at all, he just felt a sense of presence. But he knew, Dean knew what was happening, and in a dazed moment of weakness and thankfulness, he sobbed into Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel and Dean flew up to the grave, just underneath it. Castiel briefly touched two fingers to Dean's forehead, both restoring his health and leaving him with no memory of this event. Dean faded from the angel's arms, like a picture out of focus. Returned to his body, most likely. In the coming hours he would rise out of his grave—confused but fully alive—and reconnect with his lost family.

Dean, _present_ Dean blinked once, twice, looked down, looked up, looked to Castiel for answers even though he had no questions. Dean blinked again and the two of them were back in the motel. Dean standing in the same spot as before, in front of his suitcase, and Castiel standing at the other side of the bed.

Castiel was watching Dean steadily, but intently. Dean raised his eyebrows, more as a question than a challenge. Castiel looked down, he seemed to be fascinated in that crinkles and rumples in the old comforter that smelled of lavender and nursing home.

"So," Dean awkwardly stated, in an attempt to clear the air, "raised from perdition huh?"

"More or less, yes," Castiel, it seemed, felt the heaviness in the air as well. "Dean I. . . I feel as if there is a bond between us, and that it was formed at that time. When I raised you from Hell, I saw what the human race could endure for the sake of their own morality. And fighting along side you, I saw how much man sacrifices for the people close to him. You have earned my respect and my thanks, for showing me that humanity means more than being created human." Castiel nodded, as if content with his speech.

"Cas have you. . . have you ever wanted to be human?"

"It never occurred to me before. But, I do sometimes wonder how the world would look to me if I saw it the same way you and your brother do. In Heaven, we see people suffering, over love, lust, money, grief. Angels who have never touched Earth and experienced it the same way I and Balthazar and Anna had, they don't know love, friendship, or family the same way we do."

Dean—not knowing what words could possibly compare to Castiel's—nodded in agreement. Castiel walked around the bed to Dean. As always, intruding on Dean's personal space, Castiel spoke in a low voice, "Thank you for giving me humanity". Dean waited for Castiel to step away, but he didn't. Castiel paused in a moment of confusion. Once it seemed he'd made up his mind he planted a swift kiss on Dean's cheek, and evaporated not a moment after.

Sam and Dean eat alone in silence. Sam ordered a chicken strip sandwich with a side of salad, while Dean ate a double bacon cheeseburger with a side of bacon. Both of the boys were satisfied with their meals. Dean ate slowly and thoughtfully, which was so out of character it concerned Sam to the point of asking him what was eating him. The only unique part of Sam's question was the fact that he asked it at all. Dean would never admit to anything ever upsetting him, this was something Sam learned a long time ago. In response to Sam, Dean peered at Sam over his burger, thought for only a second, and then set it down on its aluminum wrapper that acted as a plate.

"I am exactly like that brand of ice cream we don't like," Dean said with a tight smile.

Sam's confusion was evident on his face, "And how's that?"

"I'm _sure fine!_" Dean's enthusiasm would've been commercial quality, if it weren't for the sarcastic note in his voice. Sam scoffed and shook his head at his older brother's antics. The two boys finished their meal and immediately afterward headed to bed. Sam fell asleep within the first twenty minutes, but Dean didn't fall asleep until hours had passed. It was maybe one in the morning when dreams filled Dean's head instead of reality. And when they did, Dean dreamt of Heaven, his heaven. Forth of July, Christmas, Lisa and Ben, his mother, and many other memories crossed his mind. If Dean had been awake, he might have been shocked to see Castiel enter his holy memories. He would never get the chance, for his dreams escaped his mind long before he even had the chance to wake up.


End file.
